After I died, they cried in the live studio

"It tickles!" Sang Jiyue laughed, dodging away. Her bathrobe belt loosened halfway, revealing a nightgown with a cartoon camel print underneath—she'd bought it at the Kashgar night market. Qi Yanqiu had watched helplessly as she lingered at the stall, eventually buying up the entire row of pajamas printed with desert animals. "Mr. Qi, why are you so distracted today?" she suddenly whispered in his ear, "Are you thinking about me praising you for looking like a poplar tree on the red carpet?"

“Nonsense.” Qi Yanqiu turned to straighten her suit, but knocked over the glass case on the table, and the desert rose quartz inside rolled to Sang Jiyue’s feet. She squatted down to pick it up and suddenly noticed the pale blue birthmark on the other’s ankle—its shape was exactly like the outline of the Taklamakan Desert. Seven years ago, when they first met in the practice room, this birthmark was hidden in her dance shoes, but now it had followed her through every inch of the yellow sand in Northwest China.

"It's time to go." Qi Yanqiu handed her a cashmere coat, his fingertips brushing against Sang Jiyue's wrist, touching her new silver bracelet—a gift secretly given to her backstage yesterday by a young fan from XJ, engraved with a crooked "Thank you, sister." The two walked side-by-side towards the elevator. Sang Jiyue suddenly remembered something and pulled her phone from her bag: "President Qi, look at what netizens are saying about us."

On the screen, in the trending topic #QiYanqiuGrassScrapBehindHair#, fans captured a clip from the red carpet: grass clippings behind Qi Yanqiu's ears were clearly visible under the high-definition lens, accompanied by the caption, "Even a powerful female CEO has traces of being kissed by wind and sand." Sang Jiyue smiled and scrolled down, suddenly seeing a comment: "So the starlight isn't a filter; someone really hid the grains of sand from the Gobi Desert in gentleness."

The moment the elevator doors opened, sunlight flooded in. Qi Yanqiu looked at the dappled sunlight dancing on Sang Jiyue's hair and suddenly remembered their last night in XJ, lying on the sand dunes counting stars. Sang Jiyue, her head resting on Qi Yanqiu's shoulder, pointed to the Milky Way and said, "Every star should have its own trajectory, just like every desert we traverse; the footprints we leave behind become landmarks for others."

At this moment, the nanny van stopped at the hotel entrance, the "Starlight Charity" sign on the roof fading to silver-white in the sunlight. Sang Jiyue tripped on the steps as she got into the van, and Qi Yanqiu reached out to help her, his palm touching the old wound on her side—a mark more real than any starlight, witnessing the stumbles, sweat, and clasped hands they had shed on their journey of charity.

“President Qi, do you think that when we’re old, we’ll be sitting in wheelchairs reading these children’s letters?” Sang Jiyue suddenly shook the email she had just received on her phone. Guli’s crookedly written “Hello, Mother Qi” filled the screen. Qi Yanqiu looked at the light in her eyes and suddenly understood that the so-called long years were nothing more than two souls weaving an unfading warp and weft between the wind and sand and the spotlight—one end tied to the camel bells of the Gobi Desert, the other end connected to the flashing lights on the red carpet, and every inch in between was filled with the tenderness that brought starlight to earth.

Outside the car window, dappled shadows of locust trees swept across the window. Suddenly, Sang Jiyue grasped Qi Yanqiu's hand and placed the desert rose stone into her palm: "Keep it safe, it's our star seed." The other woman's fingertips curled up, gently holding Qi Yanqiu's wrist, just like seven years ago in the practice room when she first held the hand of that little girl with the silver bracelet—from then on, their paths intertwined on the long road of public welfare and dreams, becoming the most dazzling twin stars.

The van drove through the neon lights, Sang Jiyue's head resting on President Qi's shoulder, listening to his heartbeat mixed with the soft sound of tires rolling over puddles. Her phone screen displayed a newly popped-up private message from the charity platform, a photo of a handwritten letter from children in Kashgar, with crooked Chinese characters next to a drawing of a man in a suit wearing a bow tie—it was obvious that it was a photo of President Qi on the red carpet.

"They drew you as a glowing cactus." Sang Jiyue's fingertips traced the cartoon image on the screen, a figure with thorns but holding a star. Suddenly, she noticed a grain of sand behind President Qi's ear glistening under the streetlight. She reached out to brush it away, her palm touching the almost invisible scar—a cut from a wire she'd gotten while moving supplies in Altay last year. This man had kept it a secret from everyone until it became infected before applying any medicine.

Ms. Qi's fingers tapped unconsciously to a rhythm on her leg, playing a dombra tune they often heard in the pastoral areas. Suddenly, the car radio switched to entertainment news, and the female anchor read in an exaggerated tone: "Top actress Ms. Sang's red carpet interaction with a mysterious female executive sparks heated discussion; industry insiders reveal her charity project involves suspected bribery—"

"Screech—" The driver slammed on the brakes. Sang Jiyue lurched forward, but was caught in President Qi's long arms. When the fabric of his suit brushed against her lips, she tasted a faint salty flavor—the trace of raindrops from the red carpet during the day, mixed with the scent of desert sunshine.

"Change the channel." President Qi's voice deepened, but her fingertips gently smoothed the disheveled ends of Sang Jiyue's hair. In the rearview mirror, the driver frantically changed the channel, and the screen flashed an image of them teaching children to sing "Jasmine Flower" on XJ. The Uyghur children's Mandarin had an adorable accent, but it was more touching than any popular celebrity's stage.

“Mr. Qi, why do some people always seem to miss the stars and only focus on the sand?” Sang Jiyue suddenly sat up straight, gazing at the public service billboards flashing past the car window—those were the saxaul forests they had planted in Gansu last year, now flourishing and providing ample shade. Mr. Qi pulled a small tin box from his suit pocket, filled with desert rose stones given to him by the children, each tied with a red string: “Because they’ve never seen what it looks like when grains of sand gather into a galaxy.”

As the car stopped downstairs at the company, the night rain began to drizzle again. President Qi opened his umbrella, but tilted most of it towards Sang Jiyue, leaving half his shoulder soaked in the cold rain. Inside the glass door, the receptionist hurriedly handed him a towel, but her gaze couldn't help but fall on the barely visible shoulder line beneath President Qi's shirt—there was a butterfly-shaped birthmark there, one Sang Jiyue had seen before by Qinghai Lake, tanned light brown by the high-altitude ultraviolet rays, like a butterfly fallen on snow.

"Go and rest, we have to fly to Hotan tomorrow." President Qi pushed the hot cocoa in front of Sang Jiyue, but opened her laptop, the blue light from the screen reflecting the faint dark circles under her eyes. Sang Jiyue stared at her hands as she typed, the calluses on her knuckles still visible from her manual labor. She suddenly remembered three years ago in Yunnan, when this person had also stayed up all night compiling lists of beneficiaries, falling asleep on the documents at dawn, her eyelashes still damp with the mountain mist.

“President Qi.” Sang Jiyue suddenly reached out and pressed the keyboard, her warm palm covering the other person’s cold knuckles. “There’s a grain of sand behind your ear.” This time she didn’t brush it away for him, but gently blew on it, watching the grain of sand from the Taklamakan Desert roll off and disappear into the shadow of the suit’s lapel.

President Qi's eyelashes trembled, and she suddenly turned around, pulling her trench coat off the hanger: "I'll take you somewhere." The rain pattered against the umbrella, and the two waded through the puddles onto the company rooftop. Neon lights shimmered in the rain, creating colorful patches of light. On the glass curtain wall of a distant office building, clips from Sang Jiyue's public service documentary were playing on a loop—she was squatting on a sand dune, teaching children to draw the Big Dipper with a twig, while President Qi's shadow silently held up a reflector off-screen.

“Look.” President Qi suddenly pointed to the night sky. Despite the light pollution, a few stars still twinkled through the gaps in the clouds. Sang Jiyue suddenly remembered the night in XJ when they lay outside the yurt, and the herdsmen said that every star was an eye of the desert. At this moment, President Qi’s profile was outlined softly by the city lights, and there was still some lip gloss she had just smeared on her suit collar, like a desert rose blooming in the night.

“Actually, I’m very afraid of the dark,” Sang Jiyue suddenly spoke, her voice as soft as a sigh amidst the rain. “But every time you stand beside me, I feel like the stars are incredibly close.” She shook the desert rose stone in her hand, which refracted tiny golden rays under the streetlights. “Like now, even though it’s raining, it feels like the entire starry sky is resting on your shoulders.”

Ms. Qi turned her face away, but the tips of her ears were a vibrant red, brighter than the agate necklace around her neck. She suddenly pulled a small cloth bag from her trench coat pocket and poured out a dozen smooth, polished pebbles—collected over the years on their charity work, each engraved with a child's name. "Guli said that if you carry the stars of the desert with you, you won't be afraid of the night," she said, her fingertips tracing the pebble engraved with "Jiyue" (meaning "clear moon"), her voice softening. "So we need to collect more starlight to light up every corner."

As the night rain gradually subsided, the puddles on the rooftop reflected blurry starlight. Sang Jiyue watched as President Qi knelt down, wiping the rainwater from the pebbles with a tissue; dark water stains quickly seeped onto the knees of his suit trousers. She suddenly remembered that typhoon night seven years ago, when this same man had knelt on the practice room floor, tying the ribbons on her dance shoes and saying, "Don't be afraid, I will be your starlight."

At that moment, the siren of an ambulance could be heard in the distance, but it couldn't drown out the rustling sound of President Qi's fingertips gliding across the stone. Sang Jiyue suddenly understood that the so-called twin star trajectory was never a solitary star shining, but rather two souls weaving an everlasting galaxy with footprints, scars, and tenderness amidst the wind, sand, and spotlight—one end tied to the camel bells of the Gobi Desert, the other to the brilliance of the red carpet, and every inch in between was a light they lit together on earth.

The wind rustled through the alley behind the celebration banquet, scattering sycamore leaves against the windows of the van. Sang Jiyue stared at the sudden surge in negative trending topics on her phone, her finger lingering for three seconds on the hashtag "Sang Jiyue's charity show." President Qi was in the front seat, talking to the legal department via Bluetooth headset, his suit cufflinks gleaming coldly under the car's overhead light. But when he turned his head, he noticed Sang Jiyue's knuckles were white as she gripped her phone tightly.

“Edit the voice messages from the XJ children into a compilation,” Ms. Qi suddenly took off her headphones, her voice sharp with the intensity of a business negotiation, “especially the part where Guli says, ‘My sister’s silver bracelet can sing.’” She pulled the cashmere blanket from Sang Jiyue’s lap and gently covered the other’s cold feet. “Remember to include the packaging from the naan bread we ate in the Gobi Desert—it has the children’s handprints on it.”

As the van drove through the tunnel, Sang Jiyue suddenly noticed that two buttons on President Qi's shirt collar were undone, revealing a light brown scar below his collarbone. It was from four years ago in the mountains of Guizhou, when she was struck by a wild boar while protecting a lost child. At the time, President Qi had a high fever but was still writing a project proposal overnight. Even as he was receiving an IV drip at the infirmary, he held her hand and said, "Don't be afraid."

"Are you cold?" Mr. Qi's voice brought her back to reality. His suit jacket was already draped over her shoulders, the warm scent of cedar enveloping her. Sang Jiyue looked at the silver bracelet on the other woman's wrist, the same style as her own, and suddenly remembered the Uyghur silversmith in the Kashgar Grand Bazaar smiling and saying, "These bracelets are a promise between the poplar and the camel thorn." At this moment, the silver bracelets clattered together, making a soft, tinkling sound, like the whispers of the Gobi Desert winds.

Outside the hotel suite's floor-to-ceiling windows, neon lights distorted into rivers of light in the rain. Sang Jiyue leaned against the bathroom door frame, watching President Qi remove his cufflinks in front of the mirror. His suit trousers still had mud stains from the red carpet—stains she'd picked up when she'd been squatting down to help fans pick up fallen desert rose stones.

"Come here." President Qi suddenly turned around, an iodine swab between his fingers. Sang Jiyue then remembered that she hadn't applied medicine to her palms, which were chafed while moving supplies in XJ. The stinging sensation of the iodine seeping into the wound, mixed with the warmth of his fingertips, suddenly reminded her of seven years ago before her first stage performance, when President Qi had applied nail polish to her nails in the same way, saying, "When you're nervous, turn the silver bracelet, as if I'm by your side."

“The flight to Hotan tomorrow has been changed to 7:00 AM,” Ms. Qi said, screwing on the cap of the iodine bottle and gently pressing the band-aid on her palm with her fingertip. “The children at the local primary school want us to participate in the flag-raising ceremony.” She suddenly pulled a brown paper bag from her suit pocket, inside which were neatly folded ethnic-style handkerchiefs. “These were sent by Guli’s mother; she said she wanted to wrap your hair.”

Sang Jiyue touched the Atlas pattern on the handkerchief and suddenly noticed the words "Thank you, mothers" written in Uyghur on the corner of the paper bag. When she looked up, President Qi was looking down at tomorrow's itinerary, his eyelashes casting butterfly-wing-like shadows under his eyes. On the collarbone exposed by his suit collar, the mole still carried the warmth of the desert sun—a new mark from when she was taking photos of children in the Kumtag Desert.

“President Qi,” Sang Jiyue suddenly leaned closer and gently kissed the back of his ear, “did you know? In the desert, poplars and camel thorns coexist.” She watched as the tips of President Qi’s ears quickly turned red, her fingertips tracing the calluses on the back of his hand, “The poplars shelter the camel thorns from the wind, and the camel thorns help the poplars stabilize the sand, so no matter how strong the sandstorm, it can’t defeat them.”

Ms. Qi turned her face away, her fingers unconsciously tracing the Uyghur characters on the paper bag. Seven years ago, that little girl secretly wiping away tears in the practice room was now filling her world with a gentle, grain-of-sand-like tenderness. Her phone vibrated on the bedside table; it was a message from the charity foundation: the solar street light project in the XJ pastoral area had been completed ahead of schedule, and the children had sent a video saying they could now do their homework under the lights at night.

"Go to sleep," President Qi said, smoothing the stray hairs from her forehead. "We have to get up early tomorrow." As she turned around, Sang Jiyue noticed a dried camel thorn stuck to the back of her suit—it was left from when they took promotional photos in the Gobi Desert, just like the marks they left on their charity work, which would never be erased by the wind and sand.

At three in the morning, Sang Jiyue heard the sound of a keyboard in her half-asleep state. She walked to the living room in the dark and saw President Qi checking the list of sponsors on the computer. The desk lamp cast a soft halo on the top of her head, and her suit jacket was casually draped over the back of the chair, revealing the faded cotton T-shirt underneath—it was the one they were given when they went on their first charity trip, with the faded words "Starlight Project" printed on the collar.

"Can't sleep?" President Qi didn't turn around, but freed one hand for Sang Jiyue to wrap around his waist. On the screen, each child's name was followed by a detailed record of the assistance provided. The latest entry was for Guli: "Application for art class material fees - approved." Sang Jiyue buried her face in the crook of his neck, smelling the faint scent of iodine mixed with cedar perfume, and suddenly felt that this was the smell of security.

“President Qi,” she suddenly pointed to the donation figures flashing on the screen, “we don’t actually have to work this hard.”

The other person's fingers paused on the keyboard for two seconds, then suddenly grasped her hand and pressed it against their left chest: "Listen, this is filled with stars from the Gobi Desert." When she turned her head, a few false eyelashes still clung to her eyelashes. "From the moment you said in the practice room, 'I want to bring starlight to every corner,' my path was destined to overlap with yours."

Outside the window, the night rain had stopped sometime earlier. Looking at the dark circles under Qi Zong's eyes, Sang Jiyue suddenly recalled the herdsmen's words under the starry sky of XJ: every shooting star is a letter from the earth to the sky. At this moment, their overlapping shadows were reflected on the curtains, like two poplars and camel thorns standing side by side in the wind and sand, their roots tightly intertwined in the darkness, their branches about to unfurl in the morning light—those grains of sand maliciously speculated upon would eventually settle in the long river of time, becoming the brightest twin stars in the galaxy.

At four in the morning, in the Starlight Charity Foundation office, President Qi, dressed in a suit and tie, leaned back in her leather chair, her fingertips tracing the list of donors on her tablet. Sang Jiyue was curled up asleep on the sofa, her cashmere coat slipped to the floor, revealing the camel thorn pattern smudged on her charity T-shirt—printed there by the children with ketchup. Her phone screen was lit, paused on her chat with Guli, the Uyghur voice converted to Chinese characters crookedly: "Aunt Qi's cufflinks look like stars, could you give me one?" President Qi chuckled softly, took off the emerald cufflink from her cuff, and weighed it in her palm. It was a gift from her father when she first started working, but now it was less precious than the stones the children in the desert had collected. The sound of keyboard clicks broke the silence as she replied to Guli: "You have to pick the stars yourself. Auntie will teach you to recognize the Big Dipper, okay?" Before sending, she attached a photo of the two of them on the sand dunes—Sang Jiyue was pointing at the Milky Way, and she was holding up her phone to take a picture of the starry sky, but she had framed the other person's profile in the lens.

“Mr. Qi.” Sang Jiyue groggily turned over, the cashmere blanket wrapped around her ankles. Mr. Qi immediately got up, his suit trousers sweeping over the project documents scattered on the floor, and squatted down to straighten the blanket for her. His fingertips touched the bruise on her calf—it was from being hit by a wooden crate when he was moving teaching materials at XJ, and now it gleamed faintly purple in the warm light of the floor lamp.

"Did I wake you?" President Qi's voice was extremely soft, as if afraid of startling the sand swallows on the Gobi Desert. Sang Jiyue rubbed her eyes and sat up, seeing the documents spread out on the desk: "The Taklamakan Mobile Library Project," with little camels and stars drawn in the corners of each page. "You stayed up late again." She reached out to grab the other person's glasses, but touched the red string wrapped around the temples—a peace knot she had obtained at Kumbum Monastery in Qinghai, a pair with the silver bracelet on her wrist.

Mr. Qi let her snatch his glasses, watching the sleepy-eyed girl rub his temples. Fine snowflakes drifted down outside the window, and the floor-to-ceiling glass reflected their overlapping shadows: one in a haute couture gown, the other wrapped in a blanket covered in cartoon camels, both in their office at four in the morning, racking their brains for children thousands of kilometers away.

"The hype from the marketing accounts has subsided," President Qi suddenly spoke, his fingertips tracing the tan lines on Sang Jiyue's hand. "But I want to take you somewhere."

Before dawn, the nanny van pulled up in front of a warehouse on the outskirts of the city. Sang Jiyue followed General Manager Qi into the warehouse, which was piled high with cardboard boxes. The overhead light illuminated countless packages labeled "Starlight Charity"—containing picture books, sneakers, medical supplies, and yogurt candies, a favorite among children. "This is the third batch of supplies for the XJ project," General Manager Qi said, pulling out a list. "We found an old 1982 translation of the bilingual edition of Andersen's Fairy Tales that Guli wanted."

Sang Jiyue touched the smiling faces the children had drawn on the cardboard box, and suddenly noticed several pairs of worn-out Martin boots piled in the corner—the heels were engraved with the initials of "Qi" and "Sang" in pinyin. They were the boots they wore during their trek in Alashan, the soles still covered in yellow sand from the Tengger Desert. "You kept these as souvenirs?" she suddenly turned around and saw General Manager Qi bending down to organize the stationery for the children, a scar visible on the cuff of his suit jacket—a scratch from a tree branch while carrying a child in Yunnan last year.

“Every grain of sand should be remembered.” Ms. Qi handed over a glass jar filled with sand brought back from charity trips across the country: the golden sands of the Taklamakan, the silvery-white sands of the Singing Sand Dunes, and the red soil of the Liangshan Mountains. At the bottom of the jar was a note written by Sang Jiyue seven years ago: “Sister Qi, when I become famous, I want to buy a new schoolbag for every child.”

Morning light streamed in through the skylight in the warehouse roof, illuminating Sang Jiyue's reddened eyes. She suddenly recalled her first charity trip to a school for left-behind children in Gansu, where President Qi knelt on the ground repairing desks for the children, his suit trousers covered in sawdust yet oblivious. Only then did she understand that the so-called "female CEO" was simply someone who transformed her decisive and efficient work style into the tenderness of wiping away children's tears.

“It’s time to go back,” President Qi glanced at her watch. “We still need to coordinate with the Education Department on the mobile library project this morning.” As she passed a corner piled with old items, Sang Jiyue suddenly stopped—on the wall was a yellowed poster, a photo of their first appearance as goodwill ambassadors. She was wearing a silver bracelet, President Qi was wearing Buddhist prayer beads, and behind them was a starry sky drawn by children with colored chalk.

"Do you know why I always take you to tough places?" Ms. Qi suddenly spoke, her voice as soft as the rubbing of sand. "Because there, I can see a starlight more real than on a red carpet—when you're teaching children to paint, when you're herding sheep for the shepherds, when you're so tired you fall asleep on my shoulder." As she turned, the morning light fell perfectly on her face, tinging the fine lines at the corners of her eyes with gold. "Those moments move me more than any photograph."

The sound of the warehouse's iron gate closing startled a few sparrows. Sang Jiyue watched President Qi's retreating figure as he walked towards the van, the hem of her suit jacket brushing against the scattered cardboard boxes. Suddenly, she understood: their relationship was never one of one-sided protection and being protected. Like poplars and camel thorns, they supported each other in the wind and sand, their roots intertwining into a net underground, their branches touching like stars in the sky. Those grains of sand, subjected to malicious speculation, would eventually settle into soil over time, allowing the hope they planted together to grow into a forest that blots out the sky.

In the car, Sang Jiyue suddenly grasped President Qi's hand and placed the desert rose stone she had been carrying in her pocket into her palm. The stone's edges were smooth and warm, like the marks of countless small hands that had caressed it over the years. "Next time we go to XJ," she said, looking at the lines on the other's palm, she suddenly laughed, "remember to bring sunscreen; your neck is peeling from the sun."

Ms. Qi turned her face away, but the tips of her ears were redder than the stones in her palms. She suddenly remembered the last night in the Taklamakan Desert, when Sang Jiyue lay beside her counting shooting stars, saying, "Every star that falls will turn into a stone in the desert, waiting to be picked up." The desert rose stone in her hand now, wasn't it the very star they had picked up? On the long road of public service, they would eventually connect to form a dazzling galaxy.

Outside the car window, the city gradually awakens. Among the skyscrapers, a poplar tree planted sometime ago is sprouting new buds. Looking at Sang Jiyue's profile against the car window, her silver bracelet swaying gently with her breath, President Qi suddenly felt that the luckiest thing in life is to meet another soul in a world of swirling sandstorms, to journey together to the stars, and to build an oasis together.

Sang Shuwan's custom-made haute couture gown swirled into a semi-circular silver moonlight halo at the end of the red carpet, the rhinestones adorning the skirt flowing with each step, as if she were wearing the entire Milky Way. As the flashbulbs exploded into a white ocean, she stopped precisely at the third non-slip mat, a textbook-perfect smile playing on her lips—a dimple on her left cheek appearing and disappearing, her left eye slightly squinting, perfectly avoiding the direct glare of the cameras. This was the "gentle sniper" angle her team had practiced twenty times in the dressing room the night before.

"Shuwan, look this way!" "Will Miss Sang be collaborating with director Nolan on her new film?" A diamond-encrusted microphone suddenly emerged from the jungle of microphones, and the agent of a top-tier actress was pushing her artist to the front row. Sang Shuwan lightly tapped her champagne-colored handbag, and Alice's cold laughter immediately came through the earpiece: "The one in the 12th row wearing Chanel haute couture, tell her not to expect an invitation to Paris Haute Couture Week tomorrow." But her expression remained gentle as she replied, "Every excellent creator is my role model."

As the crystal chandelier cast dappled light across the banquet hall, Sang Shuwan was being kissed on the hand by Mr. Lorenzo, one of the judges of the three major international film festivals. The moment his silver beard brushed against the back of her hand, she caught a glimpse out of the corner of her eye of a newly rich businessman approaching Alice with two glasses of champagne—her own agent was leaning against a gilded pillar, his black smoking suit accentuating his sharp shoulders, a thin, unlit cigarette dangling from his red lips, as if ready to rip through someone's mask of pretense.

"Ms. Sang, what do you think about AI-acted movies?" A newly risen tech upstart blocked her path, his gaze lingering on her collarbone for a mere 0.3 seconds behind his glasses. Sang Shuwan's eyelashes fluttered slightly, a cold glint flashing on her Cartier Ballon Bleu watch: "The stars in the eyes of human actors are variables that code can never calculate." Before she finished speaking, a low, husky laugh came from her left. Nearly sixty-year-old veteran actor Chen Moyuan approached, leaning on his ornate cane, his matching watch echoing hers: "Little Sang, your mouth is even better at setting traps than the students I taught at the Central Academy of Drama back then."

As the van weaved through the neon lights, Alice finally slung her ten-centimeter Givenchy sneakers to the front seat, her bare feet resting on the leather seat as she scrolled through her phone: "Lorenzo said he wants you to be a jury member for the main competition at the Berlin Film Festival next week, and—" She was interrupted by Sang Shuwan's outstretched hand, her fingertips pinching the shattered rhinestones that had fallen onto her dress: "Let's make this clear, if the hot spring hotel doesn't offer a rose bath and an iced Americano tonight, I'm boycotting your new variety show tomorrow."

As the steam from the open-air hot spring washed over her collarbone, Sang Shuwan finally removed her makeup. Alice, wrapped in a bathrobe, sat by the pool, the blue light from her phone screen casting shadows on her eyelashes, yet her fingertips still managed to hand her a peeled lychee: "Three years ago, you were eating instant noodles in a cheap, third-rate hotel, saying you'd make sure your agent ate bird's nest every meal. Now, I'm peeling lychees for you every day." Suddenly, water splashed, and Sang Shuwan, tossing her wet hair, leaned closer, water droplets dripping down her jawline onto the back of Alice's hand: "Then tomorrow I'll let you try my newly learned Thai massage; I guarantee you'll forget how you shooed away three investors who wanted to add me on WeChat at the banquet."

The night breeze swept cherry blossoms across the hot spring, and the laughter of the two women startled the night herons perched on the eaves. In the distance, the lights of the banquet hall still shone brightly, while their intermission was now taking place in the rose-petal-scented hot spring, in the newly opened box of premium caviar by Alice, and in the unspoken understanding between them about the next battle.

Sang Shuwan, wrapped in a fluffy bathrobe, curled up on the sofa, watching Alice exhale smoke while gazing at the city night view through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The phone screen gleamed coldly in the darkness; her agent's fingers flew across the keyboard, already reporting three marketing accounts attempting to leak the hot spring hotel's location to the authorities and limiting their reach. Ashes fell softly onto her silk pajama bottoms as she suddenly spoke: "Three years ago, you collapsed from heatstroke in Hengdian, clutching my hand and saying, 'Alice, don't be fierce, I'll hire ten assistants for you when I become famous'—now you have assistants, but you treat me like one."

The bird's nest porridge on the coffee table was still steaming. Sang Shuwan pulled a crumpled memo from her bathrobe pocket: "Pilates at nine tomorrow morning, brand live stream at eleven, and a flight to Milan in the afternoon. Alice, look at this schedule, it's even fuller than when I was preparing for my college entrance exam." Before she finished speaking, a chocolate-covered liqueur suddenly hit her on the forehead. The wrapper had a familiar gold logo on it—it was a gift that the president of a top luxury brand had insisted on giving Alice at the banquet that evening.

"Stop playing the victim," Alice stubbed out her cigarette, turning around to find her bathrobe belt loosened by half an inch, revealing a three-centimeter-long scar below her collarbone. "Who was it that sneaked off to Marseille to watch old movies after the Cannes Film Festival last month, making me call five private jets just to catch the paparazzi?" She approached in her fluffy slippers, pinching Sang Shuwan's chin between her fingers and examining her from side to side. "But her skin looks good; those Givenchy serums weren't a waste of money."

As the grandfather clock struck twelve, Sang Shuwan suddenly pulled a small tin box from the crack in the sofa—it was the hangover candy Alice always kept in her suit pocket. The minty flavor exploded on her tongue, and she saw her agent asleep on the coffee table, her phone still lit with an unsent message: "Mr. Lorenzo, Miss Sang's schedule needs to avoid the third week of each month; she has an old ailment that requires rest." The message was followed by a period that had been deleted and retyped, like all the unspoken concern hidden behind professional phrasing.

As the steam from the hot spring condensed into mist on the bathroom mirror, Sang Shuwan was examining the tactical backpack Alice had recently given her—it was said to be cut-proof, waterproof, and could even hold a first-aid kit, with tiny "SW" embroidered on the inside of the shoulder straps. A toothbrush made a soft clinking sound against a glass, and in the mirror's reflection, she saw Alice leaning against the doorframe, her fingers holding this morning's schedule, her gaze fixed on the pale blue birthmark on Alice's lower back—a mark left three years ago when she was cut by a rock while filming a water scene.

“The flight is at 7:30,” Alice began, her voice hoarse from just waking up. “They added an antique jewelry exhibition in Milan at the last minute, and Van Cleef & Arpels wants you to wear their new ‘Moon Phase’ collection.” She walked in, her fingertips tracing the nape of Sang Shuwan’s neck, where rose petals from the previous night still clung. “Don’t even think about escaping. I had Xiao Chen put three scripts in the side pocket of my backpack; that’ll be enough for you to practice your lines on the plane.”

The hot air from the hairdryer swirled with water droplets. Sang Shuwan suddenly turned around and, to Alice's astonishment, pressed a strawberry-flavored lip balm onto her lips: "Okay, my Commander Alice." Two overlapping lip prints were left on the fogged mirror. The manager turned around, her ears turning red, and a yellowed note slip fell from her hand—a note written in crooked handwriting when Sang Shuwan first entered the industry, which read, "Sister Alice, please have an iced Americano with two spoonfuls of sugar." The corner still bore the marks of cheap foundation she had rubbed off when she was an extra.

The soft hum of a car engine came from downstairs; the driver was preparing to leave. Sang Shuwan watched Alice bend down to adjust the side pocket of her tactical backpack and noticed she had secretly slipped in a individually wrapped packet of dried lychees—the ones she had casually mentioned wanting to eat on the plane last night at the hot springs. Morning light slanted in through the gauze curtains, illuminating half a silver pillbox peeking out of the inside pocket of her manager's suit—the painkillers Alice always prepared before her period.

"What are you daydreaming about?" Alice slapped the itinerary on her shoulder, her voice already reverting to the decisive, domineering tone she used on the red carpet. "The Pilates instructor has been waiting downstairs for ten minutes. If you don't leave soon, I'll send him the recording of what you said last night while soaking in the hot springs—'I want to act as Chen Moyuan's daughter.'" Sang Shuwan laughed, grabbed her backpack, and ran towards the door, her slippers slapping against the marble floor. "Alice, you actually recorded that! Do you believe I'll send Mr. Lorenzo the video of you crying while hugging the champagne tower after getting drunk in Cannes last year?"

As the glass door closed behind her, a waiter from the hot spring hotel brought over freshly picked cherry blossom branches. Alice gazed at Sang Shuwan's bathrobe sash swaying in the morning light and suddenly recalled that rainy night three years ago, when a young actor, soaked to the bone, squatted outside the agency, clutching a crumpled resume. When he looked up and saw Alice, his eyes shone like stars: "Miss Alice, let me give it a try. I can endure hardship."

The other person was standing in the elevator, making faces at her. A lucky bell, secretly tied to her tactical backpack, jingled in the corridor. Alice touched the tin box of hangover candy in her pocket. A strawberry hard candy had somehow been slipped inside—the kind Sang Shuwan always hid at the bottom of her makeup bag, the kind she bought from the corner store as a child.

The elevator numbers were ticking, and the morning light was growing brighter. In the night, where steam and starlight alternated, the unspoken "thank you" and "don't be afraid" of the two women were transformed into rose petals in the hot spring, punctuation marks on their memos, and secret care for each other that was always kept in the side pocket of their backpacks.

When the car stopped in front of the hotel, Sang Shuwan noticed that Alice had changed into a sharp, charcoal gray suit, her tie loosely hanging around her neck, revealing her collarbone, reddened by the steam from the hot spring the night before. She suddenly remembered the first time she accompanied Alice to meet an investor three years ago, when Alice was dressed similarly, except that back then, her suit cuffs were smudged with her own tear-stained mascara—that day, a producer publicly criticized her acting as "like reciting a textbook," and she hid in the restroom crying until her makeup ran. In the end, Alice grabbed her wrist and stormed into the VIP room, slamming the proposal in front of the other party: "Even if my artist is reciting a textbook, she can turn it into an Oscar-winning monologue."

"What are you daydreaming about?" Alice knocked on the car window. Sang Shuwan hurriedly changed her slippers into seven-centimeter stilettos, and half of the script slipped out of the side pocket of her backpack, revealing her signature on the title page from last year's Best Newcomer Award at the Berlin Film Festival. The moment the driver took the luggage, she caught a glimpse of Alice quietly slipping a thermos into her handbag—there was a sticky note on the inside of the thermos, printed by her agent: "Water temperature 45℃, contains three goji berries," signed with a crooked heart, obviously written by her assistant and then snatched away by Alice to finish.

The leather seats on the private jet were still warm. Sang Shuwan had just opened the brochure for the "Moon Phase" jewelry series when Alice shoved an eye mask into her face: "Catch up on sleep. Don't touch the script before we land." Through the gaps in the eye mask, she saw her agent typing on the computer, the thin calluses at the base of her ring finger casting shadows on the keyboard—calluses from carrying her twenty-pound costume to three different film studios three years ago. Suddenly, a familiar piano piece came through her headphones, "Canon in D," which Alice had played on repeat countless times on her phone. Once, when she was drunk, she vaguely mentioned that it was the piece her mother played in her hospital room before she died.

“Alice,” Sang Shuwan suddenly pulled off her blindfold, “Do you think Mr. Chen Moyuan will really take that father-daughter role?” The other person paused on the keyboard for half a second, then tossed her a throat lozenge as she turned: “He messaged me this morning saying you mentioned at the banquet that you’d watched his film ‘Old Alley’ seventeen times—these old artists these days, they all fall for that.” Sunlight streamed in through the porthole, illuminating a few silver strands hidden at the ends of Alice’s hair. Sang Shuwan suddenly remembered last month in Paris, when they squeezed into their apartment to watch an old movie, and her agent, sipping red wine, said, “Once you win the Palme d’Or, I’ll dye my hair that misty blue you like.” (End of Chapter)